PS 

3537 

,3fcF7 

\°iZZ. 






FRESCOES 



BY 



JAY G. SIGMUISTD 




Class J!Sl>557 
Rnnic J-^Qy-l 

casmiom oEFosm 



FRESCOES 



FRESCOES 



BY 



JAY G. SIGMUND 



BOSTON 

B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 
1922 






Copyright, 1922 
By B. J. BRIMMER COMPANY 

Set up and printed. Published September, 1922 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 

AMBROSE PRESS, INC. 

Norwood, Mass. 



CU690808 



TO MY WIFE 

LOUISE B. SIGMUND 
(Herself a Poem) 



Grateful acknowledgments are due the 
editors of Rock Island Argus, Cedar Rapids 
Republican, Cinciufiati Times Star, Daven- 
port Times, Springfield, Mass., Republican, 
Chicago Post, William Stanley Braithwaite's 
Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1922, 
American Poetry Magazine, Sports Afield, 
New Pen, Country Bard and Tempo, in 
whose pages some of the poems herein 
have appeared. 



CONTENTS 

The Father of Waters I 

Birds of Prey 2 

To a Nurse 4 

To My Son 6 

A White Pigeon 7 

To the First Robin 8 

The Parrot 9 

The Arrow-Head II 

The Folk Dancer 12 

Ego 13 

The Cardinal 15 

The Etcher 17 

"They Say" 18 

Walt Whitman 20 

Barnacles 21 

The Athenian 22 

Improvidence 24 

The Bat 25 

Lady's Maid 26 

To a Scissors Grinder 27 

Sunday 28 

The Killers 30 

To a Goldfinch 33 

Progress 34 

The Minister's Wife 36 

A Fur Coat 39 

The Serpent 40 

The Wise Man 43 

vii 



viii Contents 

Fossils 45 

Train-Window Movies 46 

The Drudge 49 

John Turner, M. D 52 

Birch and Maple 54 

Thistles 55 

The Humming Bird 57 



THE FATHER OF WATERS 

When I try to sing of your rushing flood, 

Oh mighty Mississippi, 

I find myself mute. 

Awed, I gaze from the hills 

Over the wide silver expanse 

That carries the waters of a continent 

To the waiting Gulf. 

From Itaska to the delta. 

Hemmed in by God's master-handiwork, 

You cleave the world's bread-basket, 

And drain the acres 

For millions of her children, 

That they may have food. 

When I ponder on you. 

Father of Waters, 

I am as some actor — 

Frozen and struck with quaking fright : 

Nay — perhaps more as a child stands dumbly 

At sight of his first Christmas-tree, 

Or a blaring circus parade. 

It is in my heart 
To sing paens of praise to you, 
Oh mighty river : 

But I pause on your banks instead, 
Awed and mute . . . 
And speechless with very rapture ! 
1 



BIRDS OF PREY 

I saw an osprey 
Soaring In the heavens, 
Floating high on strong pinions, 
Monarch of all beneath him. 
He sailed and wheeled over a lake, 
Pausing a moment : then arrow-like 
He struck the cool water with a splash, 
Emerging with a wriggling fish 
Firmly grasped In his talons. 

Another day I watched him 

Leave the huge oak 

Where his mate mothered two fledglings ; 

Scarce was he well on his way 

When two smaller birds pursued him — 

Two tiny king-birds — mere specks : 

But I could hear their screeching 

As they rushed their giant quarry : 

They worried and harassed him 

Until he took refuge in the forest depths," 

Helpless against the fury of their assaults. 

Yesterday I visited a courtroom. 
There I listened to the trial of a man. 
Once he had been a power in the world of finance. 
There were the judge and the balHff 
And the men of law. 
Mighty In their little places. 

2 



Birds of Prey 

I heard him tell the faltering story of his misdeeds, 

And then his attorney pleaded for him. 

I gazed about on the curious crowd 

That had gathered to see a man fight for his future - 

Morbid women, idle men, street walkers : 

Some grinned and gaped, some whispered, 

Some wiped their necks with grimy handkerchieves, 

Some shuffled their feet, some chewed gum : 

To them it was not a tragic struggle — 

It was an entertainment 

Which they welcomed and entered into greedily. 

And I minded me of the great osprey, 

That mighty bird of prey, 

Helpless and hemmed in by his little adversaries. . . 



TO A NURSE 

You are like a white angel . . . 
A benediction. 

Your light touch 
Soothes my pain : 
Your cool presence 
Calms my fevered brow : 
You tie together delicately 
The frayed ends 
Of life's ragged fabric. 

For countless others, 

You greet little new lives 

Into the world : 

You stroke clammy hands, 

And breathe encouragement 

To those whose feet 

Are just starting 

On the last bewildering journey. 

But . . . 

Never will your name. 

As a name, 

Be blazoned forth 

On Fame's escutcheon : 

It is on a brighter tablet 

Than that : 

4 



To a Nurse 

A tablet of constant and never-varying glory, 

Which shines so amazingly, 

And with so blinding a splendor. 

That all the fair names thereon 

Are miraculously blended 

Into one golden name : 

LOVE.., 



TO MY SON 

You are leaving babyhood 

Far behind you, son : 
Boyhood years are claiming you, 

With their ready fun : 
Manhood waits just down the lane. 
With its happiness . . . and pain. 

I am glad you're growing up : 
But my eyes are wet . . . 

The old world will need you, son. 
For Its schemes . . . and yet — 

How my heart aches when I see 

My wee baby gone from me ! 



A WHITE PIGEON 

What bizarre whim 
Of Fate 
Has cast you 
Into this maelstrom 
Called a city ? 

You . . . 

The symbol of peace, 

Gentle bearer of the olive branch, 

Emblem of quiet purity : 

Your soiled feathers 

Represent grimmest irony . . . 

The irony 

Of living. 

A girl 

Watches you with sad eyes. 
As you trail in the gutter 
For scraps of food. 

Is it, perchance, 

That in her heart 

She understands you ? — 

You . . . 

Whom the city has also stained 

W^ith its grime . . . 



TO THE FIRST ROBIN 

Now does your tawny breast-plate, 

Among dead leaves, 
Lend me a new-sprung courage — 

Whose sad heart grieves. 

Once I was sure that always 

Life would be grey : 
E'en you in sombre Autumn 

Winged far away. 

My eyes from the dull heavens, 

Glow'ring and dark, 
Turn now : ah, you are lighting 

Hope's dying spark ! 

And I am sure that beauty 

Near my world plays : 
,And joy once more will 'habit 

JMy empty days ! 



THE PARROT 

Blink, 

Under your monkish cowl, 

Stupid one. 

Nature's paint brush 

Was lavish with color 

When she came to you ; 

And then, as though to mock your brilliance, 

She added 

A voice of rancorous discord. 

You set me to thinking. 

Stupid, blinking one : 

Though but a bird. 

You are like 

So many of the humans 

Who gaze up at you ; 

For you wear gorgeous plumage, 

But do woefully little thinking . . . 

Mechanically repeating 

Things you have heard 

Spoken by others. 

Time after time. 

Have you not one single thought 
That is your own. 
Under that monkish cowl. 
Stupid one .? . . . 

9 



THE ARROW-HEAD 

Speak, arrow-head ! . . . 

I would hear your story : 

I would hear of the part you played 

In the great drama which man calls history. 

Ages have sunk away since a straight-spined redskin 

fashioned you ; 
What was the mission that you accomplished 
Ere I found you 

Among the pebbles at the brook's edge ? 
Was your possessor a warrior, 
Or some mighty hunter ? 
What errand was it on which he sent you 
When you sprang from his taut bow-string ? 
Was it some enemy's quivering heart 
Through which you tore your ragged way ? 
Or did you bring some frighted stag 
Low upon a smiling hillside ? 
Was it you that turned the tide of battle — 
Or was bison-flesh your quarry ? 
And your possessor, arrow-head ? . . . 
I would hear of him, too. 
Did he return a conqueror when you had sped upon 

your deadly way ? 
Or did hiiS bones blister and bleach under a too-steady 

sun } 
It may be that his fingers fumbled 
And you fell useless at his feet : 

10 



The Arrow- Head 11 

For even at best 

Some efforts must be vain. . . . 

This I know . . . 

You are not quite perfect — 

There are flaws here and there to mar a beautiful con- 
tour — 

Ah, the brave who chiseled you was young . . . 

Youth Is ever hasty 

And not over-neat : 

Your uneven surfaces hint at romances 

Which sapped betimes the skill from his strong 
fingers . . . 

Did the young arrow-maker 

Chant a love-song under his breath 

As he worked ? 

Did a sloe-eyed maiden smile from her teepee 

In answer to his wooing ? 

Mayhap the young warrior returned not 

From the battle . . . 

And mayhap 

The maiden wept . . . 

What followed, year on year, 

Oh, arrow-head ? 

Or Is your voice as silent 

A3 the stern flint from which the young buck fashioned 
you ? 

A tombstone Immortal . . . 

With its Inscription erased 

By the mocking hand of Time. . . . 



THE FOLK DANCER 

I watched you dance ; 

Your graceful limbs 

Were quartz crystals, 

Sparkling, 

Iridescent, 

Refracting the light 

Into all the splendid colors 

Of the spectrum. 

Your swaying body 
Moved like the rhythm 
Of a poem. 

A fairy wand 
Seemed to touch me ; 
I grew young . . . 
Watching you dance. 



12 



EGO 

A field mouse 
Doubtless thinks 
That the farmer 
Places corn shocks 
For his shelter. 

" Here comes my supper ! " 
Said the weasel, 
Speaking of 
This same mouse. 

" How fortunate," 
Says the society belle, 
*' That there are weasels 
To provide me 
With imitation ermine ! " 

" I am glad 

That this great tree 

Was put here 

As a location for my nest 1 '' 

Cried the magpie. 

" How kind of someone 
To make this ocean 
For me to swim in 1 " 
Quoth the herring. 
13 



14 Ego 



Don't pity the savage 

Because he is naked. 

He is sorry for us 

Because we must wear clothes. 

" Look,'* 

Says the proud mother, 
" They're all out of step 
But my Jim ! " 

The pronoun " I " 
Is very frail, 
Because worn thin 
By constant use. 

Often I think 
Everybody's queer . . . 
But me. 



THE CARDINAL 

To him 

Of the understanding heart, 

Each day 

Hath its lesson. . . . 

I have found 

My lesson for today. . . . 

My tutor 

Was a scarlet cardinal, 

Who darted like a tongue of flame 

Among the bare elm-branches. 

I, 

Deep in selfish thought, 

Stood watching the east 

Tint like a conch-shell . . . 

When suddenly 

Up spoke my red-garbed preceptor 

" What cheer ? " 

Ah, 

What a divine question 

For the waking earth to answer. 

Morning by morning 1 

But earth 

Would have to be ready 

With an answer, 

15 



16 The Cardinal 

Even as I have resolved 

To be ready with my answer, 

And it must be full 

Of joy and thankfulness : 

But principally . . . 

Joy. 

" What cheer ? " 

Ah, crested cardinal, 

That is all there is 

To life, after all, isn't it ? . . 

Cheer ! 

Are you listening there, 

Gray world ? . . . 

" What cheer ? " 



THE ETCHER 

Dear, 

Time is an etcher, 

Who scratches fine, fine lines 

In your face . . . 

To tell their little story 

Of joy and grief. 

Love and disappointment : 

But, as Time works. 

It seems to me 

You grow only more lovely ! 

Dear, 

Time is an etcher . . . 

But, in his wisdom, 

He makes 

Trees and mountains and faces 

Always and only 

More beautiful. . . . 



17 



"THEY SAY" 

" Hear about that fakir Christ 
Claiming he can heal the sick ? 
He should be stoned 
From our city ! " 

" There goes that dago, Columbus, 
Who says the earth 
Is round. 
Poor idiot 1 " 

" What ? 

George Washington, 
That young surveyor ? 
Oh he's too light weight ! " 

" I'll tell you a good one : 

That long-geared Lincoln, 

Who's splittin' rails 

For John Stewart, 

Says he's goin' to study law ! 

Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! " 

" They say, that 

This dreaming Marconi fellow 

Is about nuts ! 

Talks about a telegraph 

Without wires. 

Too bad ! " 

18 



" They Say " 19 



" Them Wright kids 
Will never amount to a damn ! 
They spend all their time 
Just tinkering ! " 

There's one short sentence, 
Often heard, 

That rasps the ear-drums ; 
It's, " They say." 



WALT WHITMAN 

On a great canvas spread 
For man's keen eye, 
He painted true : 
Pictures of life and love, 
Landscapes of green and gold, 
And heaven's blue. 

Shackles of steel he broke, 
Slaves he set free, 
With his strong hand : 
Thanks be to God, that such 
Walked among men ... so they 
Might understand ! 



20 



BARNACLES 

Our good ship ploughs its careful way to shore ; 

The breezes lift, and peaceful lies the sea ; 
A world of mellow sunshine floods us o'er, 

And promises a safe return for me : 

But on our vessel's hull a shell of stone 
Makes every beam and every timber groan. 

The swarthy sailors hack at this gray crust, 
And free the keel of its disastrous load : 

So on our trackless way, with certain trust, 
We fare with naught but ripples in our road : 

Dear God, my secret prayer goes up to Thee : 
From clogging barnacles my soul keep free 1 



21 



THE ATHENIAN 

Two tawny hands 
Deftly manipulate a scrap of cloth 
Over my boots with rhythmic snaps ; 
A guttural voice ripples in musical measures 
To a fellow-serf ; 

His talk is the language of Demosthenes : 
His glance broods upon me from lack-lustre eyes 
This Athenian, this fragment 
Broken from a race of men once great ! 
I can but compare him 
With other Greeks of other days . . . 
O little peninsula, 

How tender and tragic is your story ! 
And how great your fall ! 
Can it be this humble soul 
Is true kin to those mighty ones 
Whose names are blazoned 
On the gold and crimson pages 
Of your life-story ? 
Aristotle, Homer, Pericles, 
Look on this clay! your descendant ! 
He tells me in broken, halting accents 
That he was born in Athens . . . 
Athens, the cradle of beauty 
In those days long dead ! 
He says he wandered in his youth 
Among the olive groves — on those fugged hills 

22 



The Athenian 23 

Where his illustrious forebears 

Sang and played and plotted . . . and loved ! 

Helen of Troy he knew not ; 

But his feet have walked the streets 

That once knew her light footfalls . . . 

Socrates — Plato — Diogenes — 

Does the blood of these 

Flow also in his veins ? 

Ah, the difference 

Between the lyre of a singing bard, 

Or the chisel of a sculptor, 

And this polish-brush 

That flirts the dust from my boot-toes ! 

Yet — who knows ? . . . 

There may be a very virgin art 

In thus transforming dingy leather 

Into convex twin mirrors ! 

This to the accompaniment 

Of soft syllables — 

They may be honeyed hymns 

Of adoration to his heart's love, 

For aught I know — 

Or curses consigning me and all my ilk 

To torment eternal 

Because my foot slips ! 

Ah — Service, service . . . 

From the daubed hands 

Of a son's son, 

Down the long, noble line 

To Sophocles ! 



IMPROVIDENCE 

The towering sunflower stalk 

Laughed at the rhubarb plants 

In the garden 

When they shriveled 

Under the frost's crushing grip — 

Last Autumn. 

" I have a granary of food 

That is inexhaustible ! " he cried. 

Cardinals and other gay plumaged buffoons 

Will dine at my board 

All winter, 

Providing me 

With entertainment ! 

Yesterday the sunflower stalk 
Helped kindle a fire . . . 
His seed pods empty. 

A scarlet cardinal 
Whistled with joy, 
When he saw the new green 
Of the rejuvenated rhubarb ! 



24 



THE BAT 

A sable-winged Mephlsto, 
You flit across the dark ; 

A miniature Death-angel 
On some excursion stark : 

Your body soft and furry, 
Yet soaring like a lark. 

On gnat and bug and beetle, 
You gorge yourself at will : 

And then when morn approaches. 
And you have had your fill. 

You doze in some dark attic, 
Suspended from a sill. 

How like some greedy human . . . 

Tho none would quite admit 
The cynical resemblance ; 

Yet man will flit and flit, 
And scorch his foolish pinions. 

As nightly lamps are lit. 

And man will chase a firefly, 
All spangle-splashed and bright. 

And man will gorge and frolic 
Thruout his span of night . . . 

Then hide from eyes that question 
As soon as stars take flight ! 



25 



LADY'S MAID 

The smiling sun 
Is a lady's maid 
To slovenly earth. 

The dark cloud-s 

Brimming with moisture 

Are jars of cosmetics ; 

The gentle wind 

Is a flesh-brush ; 

Each silver fog 

Is a rare scent-bottle . . . 

Ah, the change 

Wrought 

By this golden-eyed servant, 

When she looks 

On the disheveled garb 

Of her heedless mistress ! 

With what deft hands 

She uses 

Brush and cosmetic 

And magic perfume ! . . . 

After all, 

Are artists found 

Only among serfs ? . . . 



26 



TO A SCISSORS GRINDER 

Ruddy-breasted bluebirds 
And swelling tulip-buds 
Do not herald Spring 
More surely than do you. 

In June, 

What with brides' trousseaux 
And graduation frocks, 
We shall forget you. 

But in April, 

Your grindstone sharpens 

All dressmakers' scissors. 

A single bluebird 

Means not Spring : 

'Tis so only when many bluebirds gather 

So when I hear the jangle 

Of your tuneless bell, 

I glimpse a mirage of ruffles and roses 

In June ! 



27 



SUNDAY 

I have often wondered 

Why it is 

That a few select human beings 

Strive so heroically 

To make others 

Hate Sunday. . . . 

Especially working-folk and children. 

How well I remember, 

When a boy, 

How I thought of Sunday as just a day 

When I must not go swimming, 

Nor whistle, 

Nor fish for bull-heads, 

Nor play ball, 

Nor do any of the various things 

Which I wanted to do : 

And always on this hated day 

I must wear shoes 

And a coat . . . 

And be altogether dull and miserable. 

Presently I grew up : 
And I found 

That men were busy making laws 
To prevent everybody 
From enjoying the Lord's Day. 
28 



Sunday 29 

Lately 

I have harbored the conviction 

That, were Christ to come back 

Some radiant Sunday morning, 

His first act would be 

To gather together 

All the children and working-people, 

And let them be wholly happy 

That one day. 

But it has occurred to me 

That He would probably be arrested 

For breaking some Blue Law, 

Were He to walk in the corn-fields 

On that day . . . 

As once He walked. . . . 



THE KILLERS 

One day I wandered 

Through a great packing plant, 

Merely to gratify idle curiosity. 

Into this giant ark of industry 
They herd droves of animals — 
Terrified, wild-eyed and gasping, 
Lowing and rumbling ; 
Some shrieking with a namfeless fright. 
Knowing not their fate, 
Yet with brute instinct 
Dreading overwhelming disaster. 
Lambs bleating plantively, 

Cattle trembling, swine squealing and struggliAg 
Laying down their lives, all of them, 
That man may be nourished . . . 
Swarms of brawny laborers — 
Great, sweating, half-naked men 
Covered with slime and gore, 
Appear to glory in their deeds of blood — 
Leering, boisterous, profane, lustful. 
Burly negroes 

Slashing with huge axes and knives 
The muscles which still twitch, 
And still are supple with living warmth. 
A fetid odor fills the air, 
A low droning wears the ear-drums : 
Everywhere sickening spectacles greet the eye. 

30 



The Killers 31 

I watch all this, 
And wonder at the irony of it, 
The uselessness of it, 
Awed at the endless killings 
Of dumb and patient beasts. 

Suddenly I am lost in a vision : 

I travel centuries backward . . . 

I sense a vast hush — 

All noises lose their rasping, their harshness . . . 

A white-bearded patriarch descends into a pit, 

Softening the weird nightmare 

Of a moment back . . . 

This ancient Jew, this gentle old Rabbi, 

Steps from a page of Scripture : 

Solemnly he performs 

His world-old rites . . . 

No filthy pens here — 

No pools of blood . . . 

It is an holy place. 

And this venerable man. 

This prophet of old, 

Himself lends to the vision 

A charm that is a benediction. . . . 

My reverie passes . . . 

This is no place for dreams 1 

Hungry man must be fed ! — 

His children also cry for flesh, 

And the herds of the wilderness must supply it ! 

Even as the silver-haired Semite raises his knife, 



32 The Killers 

He becomes a different being : 

He thrusts, 

Severing the heads from shuddering kine, 

Their struggling bodies lashed to timbers by chains : 

He kills, 

That his people may not hunger. 

A killer . . . 

Like those others in the sweating mob 

Of black and white killers ! 

A killer — 

One with those who leer and curse 

And kill with no thought 

Or prayer or ceremonial ! 

A killer — 

That the sons of men 

May flourish and increase . . . 

And in their savage turn 

Strike down their meat ! 



TO A GOLDFINCH 

Are you a tiny fragment 
Of some yellow moon, 

Carelessly tossed down to earth 
With your cheery tune ? 

Your home swings in a thistle, 
And the thistle's bloom 

Lines a couch with luxury. 
In your silken room. 

Mankind oft hints that thistles 

Punish him for sin : 
No avenging demon that, 

Which your nest sways in ! 



33 



PROGRESS 

Time's keen sickle 

Has sliced away centuries 

Since the Spanish Inquisition : 

Decades have passed 

Since the Salem witches 

Sizzled. 

Ask any of the so-called leading minds 

Of our time, 

As to whether the human race improves. 

" Yes," they will answer. 

" We are making great strides forward : 

The world grows better : 

Civilization marches on triumphantly ! " 

Indeed, 

I believe so, myself , . . 

Still, I could wish 

That the day had arrived 

When a man might speak his thoughts 

Without being jailed . . . 

If his ideas chanced to clash 

With those of his fellows. 

I disHke to complain . . . 

But I cannot help wondering 

If I shall live to behold that time and season 

In which success is not measured 

By dollars and cents. 

34 



Progress 35 

No question at all : 

The world progresses . . . 

But I should like to see the day 

When dignitaries turned their attention 

From the ponderous crime 

Of breaking some modern fool law 

To the more trivial and commonplace matter 

Of murder, 

Or cheating a man 

Of all that he hath ! 



THE MINISTER'S WIFE 

Ours is a peaceful town 
Of a thousand souls or so ; 
It is cradled among the hills, 
And we are provincial, 
Self-satisfied, 
And contented. . . . 
But souls must be saved : 
So we hire parsons to do this 
Little service for us : 
And we have five churches 
Whose lofty spires, 
Like great inverted icicles, 
Pierce the blue sky- 
Overhead. 

No, I shall not waste time 

Telling you of the five pastors 

Who labor in those churches — 

Though many noble things might be said of them 

And the good works wrought by their hands. 

Nay : 

I have rather to speak of a woman 

Whom I saw to-day. . . . 

She stood in a doorway 

Of a modest cottage, 

Watching her three children 

As they left for school. 

36 



The Minister's Wife 37 

Her calico dress was a little faded, 

And her smile a little tired 

And worried : 

Her face was pinched, 

And wore the gray shadow of self-denial : 

But she waved a joyous goodbye 

To the neatly-dressed children. 

I have seen her frequently before. 

In various places : 

I have seen her in church, 

In her run-over shoes and shabby hat. 

For she teaches a Sunday School class ; 

I have seen her calling on the sick ; 

I have heard the kind words she spoke to a shiftless 

loafer : 
I have seen the warming smile she gave a wayward 

girl . . . 
The village Magdalene ; 
I have heard her voice in the choir, 
Singing old hymns. . . . 

But once I saw a flush creep over her face, 

And her eyes flashed fire : 

That was when the banker's pretty daughter 

Tittered at her old-fashioned coat . . . 

But this was the only sign 

That jibes stung her. 

Or that her cross was heavy. . . . 

She is a brave woman. 



38 The Minister's Wife 

In our village, 

Souls must be saved : 

And souls may be the property 

Of humans exceeding poor in purse : 

And ministers have wives . . . 

And oh, 

We expect so much of them ! 

Poor things ! 

Why do we watch them so closely. 

Expecting them to set an example 

For us — 

Who have less privation, 

And so little that calls 

For rebellion ? 



A FUR COAT 

Sparkling eyes . . . 

Follow her a moment . . . 

How quickly she notes 

Your glance of admiration ! 

How her shallow heart thrills to it ! 

Along the Red River 

An Indian half-breed 

Finally despatches a writhing muskrat 

Which has struggled for hours 

In agony 

In a steel trap : 

He leaves the bloody carcass 

On a sand bar . . . 

But 

Eyes must sparkle ; 

Vanity must be appeased . . . 

(Vanity Is such a hungry god !) 

Daughters of Eve 

Must be coddled 

In soft luxury : 

But this bitter exchange . . . 
Why ? . . . Why ? 



39 



THE SERPENT 

Sexless spinster, 

With your saintly smile, 

And finger in Bible — 

You may deceive some — 

Undiscerning ones, 

But not me — 

Not me. 

My eyes see through the veil 

Enshrouding you 

Like the coarse-woven wrappings 

Of some crumbling mummy ; 

I behold your shriveled soul, 

Brown and dry and unlovely. . . . 

And I shudder . . . 

Day after day 

You peer out upon a sweet green world 

Through the narrow slits 

In that ugly shell 

Which houses 

Your mean and rancid soul ; 

You are conventional, suave and pious ; 

You go through the forms of prayer, 

You sing psalms ; 

You smile. 

When it is correct or tactful 

To smile ; 

40 



The Serpent 41 

But to me 

It is a warped and terrible grimace. 

Sometimes you purr and flatter — 

You are passing clever at that ! 

You are smug and well-kept, 

Like all hypocrites ; 

But you are a serpent — • 

A crawling reptile, 

With venom 

Spouting from a lightning tongue : 

Your fangs are none the less cruel and deadly 

For being hidden. 

You are the arch-assassin 

Of reputation : 

In gluttonous delirium of feasting, 

You devour crumbs of scandal, 

Smacking your drooling lips the while : 

All that is salacious and decayed 

Is your meat ; 

A fair name to you 

Is but an image 

To be defaced and befouled ; 

To the innocent 

You are as a coiled snake : 

For you lie in wait 

Ever watching eagerly 

For a word or look 

From young lips and eyes 

Which you can tear to shreds, 

To weave of them 



42 The Serpent 

A scarlet robe for innocence ; 
Each scrap of filth 
You clutch at hungrily — 
Fondling it, and adding thereto 
An hundred other ugly morsels 
Of your own devising. 

In your little, festering space, 

Nothing is sacred ; 

Youth is cheap. 

And womanhood is prostituted ; 

Manhood is scum ; 

Home is a den of noisome things : 

A knife were kinder and more merciful : 

To stab the body is but to bleed it dry — 

But to kill the soul — 

Ah, that were murder damnable indeed ! 

Out upon you ! 

I would nail your putrid spirit 

To a cross of flame — 

I would bare it and burn it — 

And so purify 

A world created sweet 

By the Great All-Father ! 



THE WISE MAN 

Henry Hopkins 

Furnishes vast amusement 

For the small boys 

Of our town. 

Henry is the village half-wit 

(At least, everybody calls him a half-wit). 

Henry is a familiar figure 

On our streets . . . 

A blighting fever did its cruel work 

When he was just a baby : 

He has grown 

Only in stature. 

But one time 

I was talking to Henry. 

He leered at me in his simple way, 

And said, 

" I'm an idiot ! " 

He emphasized that word pitifully, 

Although a faint twinkle Illumined 

His dead-fish eyes , . . 

It started me thinking . . . 

Henry, 

You're not so hopeless an idiot. 
After all ! 

If everybody knew to the full 
Their weaknesses and shortcomings, 
43 



44 The Wise Man 

As you do : 

If we all realized our limitations, 

As you realize yours, 

And beheld our true smallness and incompetence, 

'Twould be a mighty different world. 

Wouldn't it ? 

Henry 

YOU are the wise man ! . . . 
Because you, though being an idiot, 
Know it ! 



FOSSILS 
Its label reads. 



" Silurian Period," 

Awfully tame, isn't it ? 

But it is history 

Written by Dame Nature herself 

The one infallible historian. 

Bones of a creature 

Long extinct : 

Embedded in a matrix 

Of clay. 

Yonder goes a man 
Rated at a million ! 
See how the herd 
Bow to him. 
And do him homage. 

I laugh . . . 

It may be 

That this man's skull 

Will a million years hence 

Lie in some museum ! 

And what curious onlooker 

Will know or care 

That he was worth a million ? 

He will then be 
Only a fossil ; 
A relic of a period 
In world history. 

45 



TRAIN-WINDOW MOVIES 

Shrieks from a brazen throat . . . 

Discordant clanging of bells ; 

Hissing of steam, 

Shouting of goodbys, 

Bawlings from leathern lungs . . . 

This last a cue 

For the curtain of the dark train-shed to lift 

That I, perched on red velvet, 

May watch a movie 

From a car-window. 

So they come . . . 

Tenements, crowded houses, 

Store-buildings, abandoned gin-mills, 

Billboards, flying streets . . . 

I watch them all : 

I must be patient : 

This is but the comedy ... 

The feature picture will soon flash on. 

Now, then. 
Here we are ! . . . 
These scattered trees. 
This grass-green carpet — 
These are just the captions, 
Foretelling the plot 
Presently to be unfolded. 
46 



Train-Window Movies 47 

And then ... 

I am entranced ! 

Come and watch with me . . . 

Grey ribbon-roads : 

Puppet-driven toy motors : 

Noah's Ark cows and sheep and horses ; 

The sun a great poHshed metal disc, 

Clouds like the tails of grey stallions ; 

Spectrum colors furnished by feathered things — 

Goldfinch! cardinal, tanager, bunting ; 

Snuff-colored plowed fields. 

Shrinking from the glances 

Of their curious sisters. 

The sweet virgin meadows. 

And here is romance, too . . . 

The prairie and the plow mate : 

There are houses sheltering new love, 

And barns hovering over little young things ; 

Wheat fields, corn fields . . , 

Mute answers to man's ceaseless prayer 

For daily bread . . . 

Ah, 

I picked a good show — 

A marvelously good show ! 

But my pleasure is short-lived . . . 

Grinding brakes : 

A brick building 

Blots out my picture : 

And the audience is beginning to leave : 

Somebody in a uniform 



48 Train-Window Movies 

Bawls a name — 
My station ! 

Ah, but it was a picture 

Worth seeing ! . . . 

I wonder 

How many millions of ages and lives 

It cost . . . 

To produce that picture. . . . 



THE DRUDGE 

I am bound down for all time ... a serf. 

But I must slave in silence and patience. 

Not for me is lamenting 

Or any complaining : 

For I am the lawful wife 

Of a hard-working farmer 

Of the Middle- West. 

He is a tyrant — 

But he is my master. 

He looks upon me 

(When he notices me at all) 

As a chattel, a beast of burden . . . 

Because I am joined to him in wedlock, 

I am his bond-woman 

And his vassal. 

This man whose fetters I wear 
Is my whole government and my stern judge. 
I am but his property, 
To do with as he sees fit — 
For which he has bought and paid 
With a handful of his substance. 
Lands and timber, 
Grain and cattle. 
Has he in generous abundance ; 
He has laid up substantial riches. 
And he is a power 
Among men of his breed — 

49 



50 The Drudge 

Brutal, heavy-handed, self-centered, 

He believes that I, 

Or any other woman. 

Should be glad to fetch and carry for him ; 

Should be grateful — nay, proud — 

That I may pay him obedience ! 

I have served him well ... 

I have borne his flock of children ; 

I have tolled for him without surcease or remuneration ; 

I have shouldered the burdens 

At which any of his horses would rebel . . . 

And I have received less reward 

Than would they. 

I have not expected much — 

I would be satisfied with so little ! . . . 

Just a soft word now and then, 

A touch, a shy caress, a rare kiss ; 

But he is incapable of such response — 

He cannot comprehend. 

And he will never know . . . 

For he wears his heart in a shell 

Hard as adamant. 

Ugly, misshapen, shriveled and faded, 

I struggle on. 

Ah, it was a cruel fate 

That chained me to this beast — 

This grubber of the ground, 

Who never thinks or cares 

Of aught but his herds and acres ! 



The Drudge 51 

This swine, who dreams only of his trough ! 

But somewhere I must find patience : 

No word of complaint 

Must tear at my shrunken lips ! 

I may sob, and beg release — 

But this only to God . . . 

For he must not know 

That I, his lawful wife, 

Bound in the relentless irons of wedlock, 

Am soft and yielding 

In my heart ! 

He must not suspect 

My hunger and my fierce thirst 

For what is sweet and lovely ! 

He must not dream 

That I wish life 

Held an hour of ease now and then 

For prayer — and for love ! 

He must not know, I say . . . 

For I am the pitiful puppet 

Of a despot, 

Parading as my mate ! 



JOHN TURNER, M. D. 

Do you wonder who he is, 

That somewhat shabby individual 

With the pleasant smile 

And cheery " Hello " ? 

And maybe you wonder, too, 

Why everybody knows him 

And appears glad to know him : 

Why no one passes him on the street 

W^ithout a glad word 

Or a smile and a wave of the hand. 

Shall I tell you ? . . . 
The sign next to his office window 
Reads, " John Turner, M. D." ; 
But we all call him just " Doc," 
And we all love him. 
He has been with us many years now : 
No one knows us quite as well as he. 
Nor understands us better. 
He has spent all his time 
Easing pain and mending wounds. 
Reckoned in dollars and cents, 
He isn't worth much, 
" Doc " isn't ; 

He doesn't own a lot of land, 
And his income isn't much to speak of ; 
But his word is more unshakable 
Than the strongest bank in the world . . 

52 



John Turner, M, D, 53 

There are lots of babies named after him . . . 
And he's mighty rich in friends. 

You see it's this way : 

When " Doc " comes to call on us, 

We're not wearing our best clothes : 

We're sick in bed, 

And sometimes 

We're not very pleasant to look at . . . 

But when you're down sick, 

You'll be surprised to find 

How easy it is to get acquainted with " Doc." 

The sign on his office reads, 

" John Turner, M. D.," 

But we can't help just caUing him " Doc." 

It meang so much more to us — 

It makes us feel sort of a kinship with him . . . 

And we're proud of that. 

There he goes now in his old car — 

Scarlet fever out in the Sandy Hook neighborhood . . . 

They're slow pay out in that section. 

But " Doc " doesn't care — 

He'd never hang off because of that. 

You see, 

His business is easing pain and mending wounds . . . 

Wouldn't you like pretty well 

To meet him yourself ^ 



BIRCH AND MAPLE 

Why do you caress each other 
Like sweethearts ? . . . 
You two trees, 
Birch and maple. . . . 

Maple tree, 

I draw a little of your precious sap, 

And I find it sweet as honey. 

The essence of your soul 

Is lovely . . . 

As your children 

Would be lovely. 

But you, birch tree — 

W^hen I taste of you, 

I find you sour, biting, stinging. . . . 

Very harsh to my tongue. 

And repugnant to my soul. . . . 

And I wonder if you would beget children 

Like yourself. . . . 

Why are you not lovers. 
Oh birch and maple ^ 
Lovers . . . 

To mingle the bitter of the birch 
And the sweet of the maple. . . . 
For it is the way of lovers : 
Whose perfect union 
Defies the bitter 
In glorifying the sweet. . . . 
54 



THISTLES 

This tiny plot of virgin prairie 

Has never known a ploughshare, 

Nor has Nature here ever been disturbed 

And her sweet beauty ravished. 

Her handiwork is still lovely. 

Man the meddler 

Has not borrowed her fairy sceptre 

To rob her of her beautifuls. 

Set like an amethyst 

Among the other blossomed glories 

Of the painted prairie, 

Here stands a plumed knight : 

His armor dipped in the first clear tints 

Of falling water, 

He holds himself aloo? 

From daisies and tiger lilies . . . 

Does he wait to defend a kingdom — 

Or a lady ? 

For when I draw near to look more closely, 

I find he bristles with sharp spines — 

Frosty-green, delicately pointed, 

And needle-fine . . . 

A thistle — stormy and venomous. 

For all its plumed array. 

And so I ponder . . . 
There are friendships like thistles. 

55 



56 Thistles 

At first they lure and please — 

There is beauty and a certain air 

Of refinement and sweet reserve — 

But they are wary . . . 

Anon they draw you closer than you will : 

They wear a veil but to tease you on ; 

And then suddenly, when you are sure of understanding 

And communing response, 

You crush the warm friendship 

To your hungry heart — 

And there are thorns piercing you 

And poisoning you 

And wounding you deeper than can heal 

In a life-time — 

Thistles, withal ... 

To tear and sting 

And uproot belief 

In all friendships . . . 

And in God. 



THE HUMMING BIRD 

Your rhythmic humming 
Drones in my ears 
Like the weird music 
Of a reed pipe. 
It fascinates me 
And charms me. 

The radiant ruby 

Which bedecks your throat 

Captivates me — 

But not more 

Than does the iridescent sheen 

Of your other emerald glories. 

Your mission 

Seems to be 

To delight the eyes of humans - 

And impart the kiss of life 

To blossoming beautifuls. 

Splendor is yours ! 

And indeed, why not ^ — 

When you feed 

On drops of nectar 

Dripping from the cool hearts 

Of smiling flowers ! 



57 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

lllllillllllliiilllllliilliliililiilL 

018 378 207 1 m 



